


There's No Right Answer

by c_r_roberts



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-15 23:39:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2247681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c_r_roberts/pseuds/c_r_roberts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>A year after things ended so suddenly at Graduation, Panem’s resident bully Peeta Mellark returns home from college.  And he’s still fighting with—and for—Katniss Everdeen. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>A sequel to <span class="u">You Don’t Know What You Don’t Know.</span>  </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's No Right Answer

He's back.

When I enter the bakery, I'm expecting to see Bran, the oldest Mellark, and his slightly dopey smile standing behind the counter. Or even mean old Mrs. Mellark with her sneers and dirty looks. And right now, I'd gladly rather have her staring at me instead of her youngest son.

So I do my best not to startle at his blond hair, broad athletic shoulders, and piercing blue eyes that don't quite look like they were expecting to land on me either.

I'm an idiot. I should have known better. I should have known Peeta was back from his freshman year at Panem State, especially because I _did_ know that Madge was back. And I should have anticipated that he'd resume his regular Saturday shifts at the bakery.

And I really should have just gone to Dunkin' Donuts.

Because all I needed to do was pick up a dozen doughnuts before my study group meets at the community college. It's the weekend before finals, and since our Botany exam is supposed to be a killer, a group of us has committed to meeting at the library at eight o'clock this morning.

But I'm tired, and I wasn't thinking, and muscle memory brought me to Mellark's. Although now that I'm here, barely two steps in, I'm tempted to turn around and leave.

But I can't. I'm frozen in place by his stare. As well as the entirely unwanted and unexpected rush of emotion that I've spent months convincing myself I didn't have.

I don't know how long we stand there, just sizing one another up, but it's long enough for me to take note of the white undershirt he wears under his apron with jeans, and how he looks mostly the same, he's a little fuller, his features are a little sharper, and he's definitely older.

He looks good.

Peeta breaks the silence first.

"Hey."

His voice doesn't have the edge to it that I'm expecting. And he follows up with a noncommittal shrug, which would be entirely unrevealing, if he wasn't still looking at me in a way that says everything for him. Because Peeta's eyes cut through me as if still knows every little piece of me; like it hasn't been almost an entire year since we've spoken.

I haven't given Peeta the time of day since Graduation. He'd spent a good part of last summer trying to convince me to, though. It took him a while to eventually give up, after too many failed attempts and my persistence in not even acknowledging him.

Really, I couldn't even look him in the eye. Maybe because it hurt too much; definitely because I didn't trust him. And also because I knew I didn't trust myself either. I know he played me, I know I was just some game to him. But a part of me had wanted to believe him when he said I wasn't. And I couldn't let that part of me take over again.

So then Peeta went off to college, and I could finally breathe again. Be my sane and rational self again.

But that all changes today, all because I decided to be nice and volunteer to bring fucking doughnuts.

Some of the mischievous glint I remember returns to his eyes as he waits for a response I'm still too stunned to give him.

"Are you just going to stand there and stare, or…?"

In my irritation, there's courage. I scowl. And walk further into the bakery, right up to the counter.

"I wasn't staring at you." I make it a point to keep my voice even and calm. Indifferent.

Peeta shrugs again, stepping up to the counter too, leaning on his hands and slightly in my direction.

I involuntarily hold my breath at his closeness. And at the blueness of his eyes, and how they're unafraid to keep looking at me.

"So why are you here then?" The way he asks me tells me Peeta's gaining confidence now, with a low husk to his voice that would have affected me once upon a time.

I don't have time for this. My study group begins in ten minutes. And furthermore, I don't want to even come close to falling into the same old routine with Peeta now that he's back. I want to ignore him and go back to pretending like he doesn't exist.

Or better yet, never existed.

But I guess old habits die hard, and I can't resist.

"Oil change."

Peeta raises an eyebrow. He's amused.

I roll my eyes and sigh.

"I need a dozen doughnuts."

He watches me carefully for a beat before nodding, then readying a box and gathering an assortment of ringed baked goods. Peeta's placing a glazed one with strawberry frosting in the box when he looks back up at me, catching me off guard, because I know I've been staring.

He smirks, knowing he caught me.

"You know there's a Dunkin' Donuts on the way to the library, right?"

I furrow my brow, confused at first, wondering what he means, and more importantly, how the hell he knows where I'm going.

Peeta shakes his head, still amused at my expression, and my eyes flit down to his hands, which are now placing three, no, _four,_ maple frosted doughnuts—my favorite—into the mix.

"So tell me. What's it like, studying with Cato? I've always been about 50% sure he can't really read."

That must be how Peeta knows where I'm off to. Cato's part of my study group. I'm not really sure how that even happened, because I'm pretty sure Peeta's right. Or at least if Cato can read, he certainly doesn't have anything to show for it, because he offers nothing to our group and is constantly just a distraction. But he's on the community college's baseball team, and I think his coach insisted he attend study sessions to keep him eligible to play. And the rest of the group doesn't seem to care that Cato just dicks around most of the time because he has his older brother's ID and agrees to buy people beer in exchange for putting his name on our assignments.

When I still say nothing, shifting my weight and growing impatient—and more uncomfortable by the second—Peeta swiftly closes up the box and sets it on the counter between us with another knowing look.

"So. I'm just going to go ahead and pretend like you came here instead to see me. Because you clearly came out of your way, and well—"

"You need to stop acting like I forgive you," I cut him off sharply. Because seriously, _we're not doing this._

I hand over my credit card, as if it proves this is just a business transaction.

But Peeta's downright cocky now, and he doesn't heed my warning as he rings me up.

"Oh, I'm well aware that you don't forgive me."

Then he hands me my credit card and its accompanying receipt, letting the palm of his hand linger, his warmth and the sensation of his skin against mine sending a jolt through me that knocks me to my senses enough to pull my hand back quickly.

Peeta shakes his head slightly at my abrupt movement but doesn't let it deter him.

"But I think you still want me."

I wrinkle my nose and narrow my eyes at the same time, done feeling the electricity between us and instead just feeling annoyed.

"I never wanted you, Peeta."

I'm lying.

He knows it.

And because he knows it, his eyes gleam at me.

"Yeah, okay, Katniss."

I sigh loudly. Probably too loudly.

"Fuck off, Peeta."

And he grins a grin that takes me right back to a year ago, to all those times when he knew he'd successfully gotten under my skin, enjoying his ability to do it so easily.

"Sounds like it's going to be a fun summer."

Ugh.

"Don't hold your breath," I mutter, picking up my doughnuts and turning my back quickly to him.

And then I scramble out of there as quickly as possible, pursing my lips while silently vowing it's strictly Dunkin' Donuts from now until September.

***

Madge's birthday is three weeks after mine. Which means it's June, and I'm done with my semester, officially only worrying about my part time job waitressing shifts at Greasy Sae's and the lone summer class I'm taking on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Well, unless you count her birthday party that's happening tomorrow night. Because then I'm definitely worrying about that too.

It's going to be huge. Everyone's going. Her parents are out of town. Her house has a pool and a fire pit, and it's being treated as a reunion of sorts for all of the college kids who are back home for the summer.

Gale's grabbing a quick lunch at Sae's during a break from his job building a deck on the back of a house down the street when I tell him I've decided I'm not going.

He almost chokes on his turkey club.

"What?" he sputters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he stares at me, partly confused, but mostly frustrated. Gale's still dating Madge. He visited her every other weekend at Panem State. And as one of the only people at her party that he'd really know, and also as one of Madge's legitimate friends, I know he has every right to flip out on me.

"You _have_ to go." He shakes his head at me. "What the hell's your problem, anyway?"

My _problem_ is that I know Peeta Mellark will be there.

While Madge and Peeta were friends in high school—even though he was an evil asshole to her those few times—they're even friendlier now that they both went away to the same college. I know this because Madge has spoken of him in passing in front of me during visits home when I've been bored enough to hang out with her and Gale.

She says he's not so bad away from home. That he's changed. And that she thinks maybe it's because of a girl or something.

I'd gone ahead and figured it's because of _plenty_ of girls.

Although I can't deny that every once in a while, I've also wondered if maybe it's because of me. Because there are times I've looked back and wondered why he tried so fucking hard. Especially after the game was up.

But I don't like thinking those thoughts, and I really don't like the idea of being at the same party as Peeta, or his games, or his shit-eating grins.

So obviously, it's easier to just not go.

Kind of like it was easier to never take Madge up on her offer to visit her at school.

But clearly, Gale's had enough of my lame excuses. And he's looking at me now like I've officially run out of them.

He doesn't even let me tell him mine this time— _that I have to work an early shift here on Sunday and need to study for a quiz on Tuesday_ —and just lectures me instead.

"She's your friend, Katniss. And you're my friend too." He looks at me pointedly, although I can tell he's still wondering _what the hell my problem_ is.

Then he checks the time on his phone that's set out on the small table he sits at, sighing with a shake of his head as pulls out his wallet to throw a few bills on the table. He stands up, looking back at me authoritatively.

"And you're going."

***

I go.

But I also come up with a solution. It's not a great one, by any means. But it seems like the best option out of all of my sucky options.

Because for the past three months, Cato's been trying to get me to go out with him. He's failed miserably up until tonight. For good measure—he's brutish and crude and represents most things I can't stand about guys—and I'd never in a million years consider him as an actual romantic prospect. But when he sent me a text yesterday asking me about Madge's party, I'd been desperate, and so I pretended to be a stupid giggly girl and then hadn't said no when he suggested we go together.

I'd figured showing up to Madge's with Cato would keep plenty of space—and over 6 feet and approximately 200 pounds—between me and Peeta.

I regret my decision almost immediately though, because when Cato picks me up in his F150 and stares at my crotch as I climb up into the passenger side because I'm wearing a skirt that's shorter than the clothes I usually wear, I have to stop myself from cursing at him. Thank god it's only a five minute drive to Madge's from my house and I manage to hold my tongue.

When we arrive, to some curious looks and Gale's eyes bugging out of his head, I'm instantly dragged away by Madge. She's already kind of tipsy, I can tell, because her tongue's tinged red with some sort of alcoholic juice concoction, and she's giggling.

"Katniss, why the hell are you here with Cato?" She's laughing, like it's funny, but when I scan her kitchen, looking for someone else, I catch Gale's still-stunned gaze, and I think she's been sent on a mission to check up on me.

I shrug her off with a nonchalant wave, giving the kitchen crowd another once-over.

He's not here.

At least not yet.

"Madge, it's nothing," I tell her, looking her in the eye, making it clear I'm serious. "I just needed a ride here, and he offered."

Also, I needed a buffer.

She wrinkles her nose, but buys it pretty easily.

"Do you think he's cute?" she asks, taking a gulp of the drink in her hand, eying him from across the room.

I don't have to look at him to know that I don't. Cato has short, spiky blond hair and blue eyes that I think are dull, and while he's tall, and well-built, and technically good-looking in that jock kind of way, I find absolutely none of it attractive.

But I don't tell Madge that. I shrug.

"He's…all right. Not really my type," I claim.

Madge raises an eyebrow curiously.

"What _is_ your type then?"

Thankfully, I'm saved from answering by Gale appearing, shoving a cup of keg beer into my hand.

"Hey Catnip. So glad you could make it."

I narrow my eyes at him momentarily, but just accept his sharp stare and decide to let it go. Instead, I take a sip of the beer—a beer I'm already planning on nursing most of the night, since the last thing I need is alcohol clouding my judgment and allowing me to let my guard down—and survey my surroundings again.

I'm not exactly friends with any of the people here, save for the two I'm talking to now.

In fact, a year ago, I wouldn't have been caught dead at a party with most of them. But a year away from high school, as well as another year removed from my dad's big scandal, things are a little easier for me, I suppose. Typically, I get less stares, and if people are saying snide things about me, I'm rarely around to hear them anyway.

Although I'm aware people are curious when Cato approaches again in an attempt to flirt. And I know it freaks Gale out, because he knows I don't like Cato and have complained about him on multiple occasions. In fact, there's probably only one other person I could talk to that would freak Gale out more.

And that person just so happens to have wandered into the kitchen as I patiently let Cato lamely hit on me. I only catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, because the room's crowded, since it's housing the alcohol, but I can't miss his blond waves or the distinct way he carries himself as he enters, wearing a simple dark shirt with well-worn jeans.

Though of course I work hard at pretending not to notice, forcing a laugh at something really stupid that Cato says, knowing full well Peeta's eyes are on me, even though my back's to him. By now, Gale and Madge have both lost interest in the comically bad way Cato hits on me, and I'm left alone with him, thinking his popularity in high school as one of the stud jocks has hindered him, because he's never had to develop a personality in order to get girls to like him. And apparently I'm supposed to grin and look longingly at him when he tells me I should come watch some of his summer baseball games.

But the longer I put up with his dolt-like conversation, almost wishing I could chug, rather than sip, my beer, I can sense Peeta slowly inching his way closer to us, mingling his way through the crowd until I hear him behind me making sarcastic comments to Thresh and Thom about how it's funny that Clove and Marvel don't seem to be here tonight.

It's an inappropriate, unfunny joke, since Clove and Marvel aren't here because Madge had been one of Marvel's bets before he got back together with Clove last year. And though I'm attempting to ignore his voice, and trying not to pick up on the slow, deliberate certainty of it—so sure of himself and his biting wit—I fail miserably because it's all I can pay attention to.

At least until Cato finally steps over the line. And he's just been talking about wanting to play beer pong, so it really comes out of nowhere.

"God, Kat, you got so fucking hot this year," he tells me with what I think he means to be a smoldering look, putting one of his large hands on my shoulder.

I tense, recoiling from his touch.

His eyes darken, and his towering frame leans into me.

"Let me know when you want to take this party upstairs."

It takes everything in me not to barf, scream, and knee him in the balls at the same time.

Instead, I simply shrug away from him, trying to laugh, though it probably comes out slightly manic, what with trying to conceal my inner rage.

"Yeah, well, I don't think it's that kind of party," I manage tightly.

Cato tilts his head, still not getting the message.

"Oh, I think we can have whatever kind of party we want."

I blink my eyes momentarily, reeling myself in again, and when I open them, I see Peeta, who's suddenly joined us.

"Give it up, Cato. She's clearly not interested." He's talking to his so-called friend, but he's looking directly at me.

He sips from his red solo cup filled with beer slowly, looking casual and appearing as if he's just meddling for the amusement of it all, but clearly, I know better.

And I squirm.

Cato looks confused. But he squares himself toward Peeta, taking a stance as if he's trying to mark me as his territory.

"What's it to you, Mellark?"

Right, good question. Because why _is_ Peeta Mellark publicly showing anything other than disdain for me?

Peeta takes another sip of his drink, looking slightly less amused and slightly more concerned, though maybe it's just me who picks up on it.

"Just leave her alone," he says, his voice lowered. It's firm, but calm.

"Don't fucking tell me what to do," Cato responds, becoming more agitated. He looks at me, now officially like I'm some sort of trophy he wants to win. "You're a big girl who can make her own decisions, right?"

I'm so mad right now I could explode. Because it feels like the whole party is watching us, and it's uncomfortable and embarrassing, and clearly, all of this was a big mistake. I thought coming with Cato would just make Peeta leave me alone.

But obviously, it's just made things worse.

I don't dare look at Peeta as I answer Cato's question.

"Right. And I think you should _both_ leave me the fuck alone, actually."

I exit the kitchen hastily, surely to many sets of eyes on my back, never more in need of escaping for the privacy of a bathroom.

Luckily, I've been to Madge's enough to know where a deserted one is upstairs.

I close the door quickly, staring in the mirror, taking a deep breath or two as I do, working through what's going on in my head. Because now everyone here is wondering why Peeta would care enough about Cato being handsy with me. And I have to figure out to deal with the repercussions of that as well as spending the rest of the night fending off Cato—who's surely going to be even more intrigued now that someone else seems interested.

The easy, quick solution is leaving.

Maybe Gale isn't drunk yet and he can take me home.

Though I'll walk if I have to. It's almost midnight, but the two mile trek home in the dark is probably less treacherous than staying here. And after a few more deep breaths and a cool splash of water to my face, I decide that if I can't catch a ride, that's exactly what I'm going to do.

But my plan's derailed before I have the chance to put it in action.

Because when I open the bathroom door, Peeta's standing outside of it. He must have followed me.

I startle, but react quickly enough to draw a thin line with my mouth and harden my gaze.

"Don't start," I warn him flatly, and then try to brush past him.

But he grabs my wrist, stopping me from leaving, and I whip back around, ready to lay into him.

But his eyes are on my mouth. He's just…staring at my lips.

It's just enough of a distraction to allow him to pull me back into the bathroom, cornering me up against the door as it closes, reaching around me to lock it behind us.

I slink back from him, trying to get away, but he's got me trapped, not only physically with his arms on both sides of me and holding one of his hands against my hip, but emotionally too, with his heated gaze that travels straight up from the floor to my eyes.

I force myself to hold his stare.

"What do you want?" I manage to ask him, proud that I sound indifferent, embarrassed I'm even bothering to ask.

"You know what I want."

His voice is gravelly, and he speaks the words as if he's challenging me.

I swallow hard, but shake my head at him.

"Stop."

And I try to shake him off me too, but it's no use, because it just makes his hand dig into my hip harder, keeping me right where I am.

"No," Peeta tells me, and my brain is screaming for me to stop this, to do whatever I can to get out from under Peeta, but his touch and his intensity has every other part of me absolutely on fire.

"You're so fucking easy for me to see through. You know that, right? You think you're tough, and you can build up wall after wall if you want to, but I still see you, Katniss."

He smirks.

"And you're trying to make me jealous."

I may have to bite my bottom lip in order to do it, but I still sneer.

"Don't flatter yourself."

His lips stay curled upwards in that knowing, pleased expression, and Peeta leans further into me, resting his forearm against the door, pushing his hips against mine.

It takes everything in me not to gasp from the pressure—as well as the unwanted pleasure—of it.

"Oh, so what? You and Cato are dating now?" Peeta chuckles bitterly. "What the fuck, Katniss? What are you going to do, hang out at meadowland park drinking Natty Lights on the back of his pickup truck? Have his hulking spiky-haired half-retarded babies?"

"Maybe," I tell him with a shrug, unfaltering in my posture as I jut out my chin, though my voice isn't as strong as I'd like it to be.

Peeta sighs. His breath hits hotly against my skin.

"It's fucking working, okay? I'm out of my mind jealous."

He's so close. His fingers run themselves up my side, and even through the light fabric of my tank top, I can feel their warmth, his strength, as he's pulling me closer. Though he's not just drawing me in with his touch, because it's his eyes that almost break me. They're so blue. Molten blue.

I hate him so much. I know I hate him.

I want to hate him.

"I still hate you."

I blurt the words as he traces his fingers back down my abdomen and begins drawing tight circles with his thumb against my hip bone.

His eyes concentrate on his work, though I watch his blond lashes flutter as he blinks once, and I can see the lopsided smirk that perks the corners of his lips.

Lips that are so close to mine that if I even moved an inch, they might touch mine.

Peeta keeps his eyes averted, and I'm stuck just watching that mouth of his as he exhales.

"I've missed you so fucking much it hurts."

And if I hate him so much, then why do I want to believe him? Why do I suddenly want to act like this whole past year hasn't happened and forget that this heat between us isn't healthy, and that it's burned me before in the past?

It's because I want his hands. I want Peeta holding my hips, digging his fingers further into my skin. And I want his lips, warm and rough, pressed against the hollow of my throat, dragged slowly down to my collar bone.

And I think I even want his heart. The heart I've seen in weird, unexplainable moments like this one. That comes in flashes and glimpses in between whatever the hell the rest of this is.

It's because even though Peeta is bad for me, even though Peeta Mellark is bad, I'd forgotten how good we can be.

And then finally, _finally_ , just as I think he's about to kiss me, my brain takes back over and I panic.

Because I know I have to forget again.

"Peeta, stop."

I scrunch my face, afraid to open my eyes, knowing I'll see blue eyes and blond hair and warm lips that will probably just keep me here.

"I…let me go."

I have to get back to the party. I have to get away from him. Find Gale. Get him to take me home. Or start walking.

I feel him ease off me, and hear him sigh, dejectedly.

And I open my eyes to Peeta staring straight into me.

"Yeah, okay," he says quietly, finally dropping his arms.

And letting me go.

***

An hour later, I've failed at leaving. When I found Gale, hoping I hadn't come across as hot and bothered as I felt, Gale told me he'd be happy to drive me home when he was ready to leave. He promised that because he has an early job in the morning it won't be too much longer, but he needs to stick around to make sure Madge's party doesn't get out of hand, because she's gotten a little too drunk to do so herself. He won't let me walk home either, and though I know he's not my keeper and I can do whatever I want, I don't have the energy to fight him on it. And so I settle for hanging with Gale and Madge, watching people down multiple shots and too many keg beers, all while making sure I'm never within a ten foot radius of Peeta. Or Cato, for that matter.

It's easy enough to do, because I'm pretty sure Peeta's gone off to the basement to play beer pong, and Cato's in the kitchen, and we're hanging out on the back deck. I'm even slightly entertained by people getting drunk enough to decide it's a great idea to jump into Madge's pool fully clothed as I watch them flop around in the water, happily drunk enough not to care it's only 65 degrees outside. But then Madge comes down with the hiccups, and I offer to get her a water, thinking one might be good for myself too, and I make my way into the kitchen.

I'm in the fridge digging for two bottled waters, hidden behind cranberry juice and orange juice and soda mixers, when I hear Cato behind me.

"Hey look, it's my date who's spent the past two hours ignoring me."

I brace myself while I'm still hidden inside the refrigerator, deciding the waters can wait as I turn back around to face him.

I'm greeted by a clearly drunk Cato, whose eyes are glassy and his gait unsteady.

"Yeah, about that," I begin to tell him, unsmiling. It doesn't stop him from slinging a clammy arm around my shoulder though. Nor does my irritated sigh deter him from proclaiming that it's _time for me to put out for him._

He's being obnoxious and loud enough about the whole thing that I think he's probably joking, and people are laughing, but none of that makes it funny.

I twist uncomfortably out from under his arm.

But it's his hand on my ass that really makes me shove him hard.

"What the fuck!" I yell at him, as I do, enjoying his surprised and offended expression at my violent outburst. And Cato's only beginning to sputter a response when I see it happening.

Because from virtually out of nowhere, since I'm sure he wasn't in the kitchen when I entered it, Peeta brushes past me and he pushes Cato square in the chest too.

He sends Cato flying much further than my slight frame did, and though it's enough to make Cato back pedal, it doesn't throw him off balance entirely.

I'm genuinely shocked, and I'm unable to vocalize my anger at what's happening before me.

"What the fuck is your problem, Mellark?"

Cato shoves Peeta back, and it escalates into an actual fight.

As I watch Peeta determinedly regain his footing, I can tell he isn't sober either. And I know this is going to end badly. But no one, including me—though I suspect if I tried, I'd just make things worse—is stopping it.

"I thought I told you to leave her alone, asshole."

Another shove.

The rest of the crowd in the kitchen has backed away to give them space, either enjoying the show, or like me, too afraid to do anything to interrupt it. And the crowd outside is starting to gather too, their interests piqued by male voices yelling and the hushed quiet of the rest of us.

"Hey Katniss," Cato calls to me, though his attention is entirely focused on his opponent, and both of them have resorted to raising their fists as they stand a few feet apart, "you have any idea what his problem is, if he's not going to tell me?"

I ignore Cato's question, instead looking at Peeta, whose eyes dart between me and Cato, needing to be on guard for a potential first blow.

I exhale angrily, the flush in my cheeks a visible sign of how fed up I am. And I finally say something.

"Peeta, stop it."

One final look at me and I know he knows I'm serious. That I very obviously don't approve of this. That I'd honestly never talk to him again, and that I'm contemplating it just for even trying to start something. And that most importantly, I'm not some stupid helpless girl that needs rescuing.

I see it on his face, as Peeta realizes he fucked up. And that he's willing to stand down because of it. I even notice him start to put his hands up in a signal of surrender.

But it doesn't stop Cato from clocking him square in the jaw anyway.

And after that, all bets are off. Because while Peeta clearly gets decked, he's a wrestler and can handle himself during hand to hand combat. And while he may have been willing not to throw the first blow, no amount of me telling him not to, nor Cato's height or the fact that Cato probably has 40 pounds on him, is going to stop Peeta from fighting back.

I turn my back to it, unable, and unwilling, to watch. But I still hear the grunting, the sounds of body parts contacting other body parts, and the _oohs_ and _ahhs_ and the verbal cringing of everyone who is watching.

And I also hear Cato yelling at me during the struggle. "What, you think I care if you want to fuck Mellark instead of me? You're just some piece of tr—"

His words are cut off and replaced by the sound of the painful _ooofff_ of his breath escaping him as Peeta must hit him in the gut. And because of it, Cato's unable to say the rest of whatever he was about to say.

I spin back around, seeing the mess of two stupid drunken boys rolling around on ground to the sounds of Madge screaming as she rushes inside. And then all of a sudden, Thom's helping Gale break it up.

My hand's over my mouth before I can remember not to react when I see Peeta as Cato's pulled off of him, his lip covered in blood and his right eye already swelling up from a direct hit. I'm able to register that Madge is still screaming, now for Peeta and Cato to get the hell out of her house, and then I see her face go white at the sight of blood—bright red—splattered on her parent's marble kitchen floor.

And when I look to Cato, I'm strangely satisfied to note that blood's dripping from his nostrils too and that it's quite possible Peeta may have broken his nose. But then I catch Gale's glare, who's still holding a thrashing Cato back with Thom, and I know I have a _lot_ of explaining to do.

But not tonight.

Because Peeta's just been kicked out of the party and he needs to leave.

And I need to leave too. I need to leave with Peeta.

I look back to him just as he's pushing himself up into a seated position when I sigh and cross the couple of feet's distance to him, reaching down and holding out my hand.

What does it matter if I cross the line in the sand and help him up now? Everyone's staring at us anyway. And I know exactly what they're thinking. It's what I'm thinking too.

_What the hell is going on between me and Peeta Mellark?_

"C'mon," I say, when he doesn't take my hand at first. He looks surprised. Along with slightly grotesque, what with having his face just beaten in. I lock eyes with him anyway. "Let's go."

It's a decidedly different request than an hour and a half ago. And this time when his lips upturn, his smile's devoid of any smirk or slyness.

***

We leave immediately, and the only explanation Madge and Gale get from me is that _I'll be fine,_ and even though Gale looks at me like I've just made a deal with the devil, he's too preoccupied with Madge and the blood and getting Cato the hell out of there too to fight me on it.

So I take Peeta's keys from him, which he hands over voluntarily, and I drive us in his car. He doesn't say anything when I bypass the street that would take us to his house. I tell myself I'm doing it because if Peeta shows up drunk and beaten at his mother's house at two in the morning, the only thing that will happen is more violence. So really, I have no choice but to take him to my house instead.

Neither of us says much of anything the entire ride. And it's still quiet when I bring him inside my empty house, where we're all alone because Prim's away at cheer camp and my mom's working her usual night shift at the hospital.

Peeta stands patiently with me in the kitchen as I wet a paper towel to press against his lip to clean up the blood, and I watch him try not wince when he does so. He also accepts the cold compress I find in the back of the freezer, and I make him hold it against his eye.

Then I lead him into the living room, telling him to sit on the couch. Again, Peeta obeys my orders without complaint, and I go about gathering up blankets and a pillow, a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin.

He's so quiet. Peeta's never this quiet. There's always something biting or smart or evilly witty coming out of his mouth. So it's strange to be the first one to speak when I return to his silent gaze.

"You can um, sleep on the couch."

I study him carefully for a beat, his golden hair silver in the moonlight that streaks through the front window, where the shadows hide the bruising that's surely beginning to appear on his face. And I think I'm ready to just leave him down here, and head up to my bedroom, when I finally get one of his smirks.

"Wait."

Peeta's eyes—well, eye, since one of them is covered with an icepack—plead with me. "Will you…just stay and talk to me for a minute?"

I sigh, putting a hand on my hip.

"I'm not really interested in your drunken ramblings."

He rolls his eyes— _eye_ —at me.

"Katniss. I know you don't trust me. And I know I don't deserve you to. But, please?"

I sigh again, deciding to indulge him. Though when he moves for me to sit next to him, I shake my head and stay standing. Whatever Peeta wants to say can be said without the added affect of his proximity.

It's his turn to sigh. And he puts down the ice pack, I guess so he can really look at me before he begins.

"I don't know how many times I have to tell you, but you weren't a bet to me, okay?"

I perk an eyebrow, reluctantly. He's right, I've heard this before.

Peeta shrugs, looking strangely helpless. "It worked as a good excuse at the time. To sneak off to be with you. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about it sooner. And you have every right to be mad at me for it."

Peeta pauses, shifting slightly, licking his lips and wincing slightly as his tongue must catch his cut.

"But I just…I need to know. Will you ever not hate me?"

Even with the swelling, his blue eyes unsettle me as I consider him.

"Probably not," I tell him, hoping saying so out loud makes it true.

It doesn't. Because for as much as I'd like to hate Peeta, I don't. Not really. And if I hate anything at all, it's just that— _not_ hating him.

Peeta reacts with an unexpected smile as he leans back into his seat.

"Well I guess hate's better than feeling nothing at all," he tells me. "I'll take hate. Hate's a good look on you."

His smile evolves into a full-fledged grin.

"Especially if _hate_ makes you wear mini-skirts."

And there he is, the Peeta Mellark who infuriatingly reads me like an open book and knows it. The Peeta Mellark who can only stand about twenty seconds of sincerity at a time. The Peeta Mellark who's luring me back in with stupid banter and an even stupider grin.

I narrow my eyes at him.

"You want another black eye?"

He shakes his head. Still grinning.

"I want you."

"You can't have me," I tell him defiantly.

Peeta shrugs, rolling his head back to rest on the back of the sofa as he looks up at me.

"Just making me want you more, Everdeen."

I really wish he wasn't attractive like this. Everything would be so much easier if he wasn't at his hottest when he's antagonizing me.

It would also be a lot easier if my heart wasn't picking up its pace and beating against my chest. But apparently it's impossible for it to deny Peeta Mellark.

So I study him. I furrow my brow in concentration, even. And I try and rework the pieces of the puzzle. Because I want to make them fit. I want to believe him.

I just need to test him a little bit more first.

"I wasn't a bet?" I ask slowly.

"You weren't a bet," he repeats with a sigh, studying me right back.

I narrow my eyes.

"Madge said you had a girlfriend or something."

Peeta makes a face.

"Madge has her tongue way too far down your boy Gale's throat to know what she's talking about."

I bite my lip to keep from smiling. And I give in and sit down on the opposite end of the couch.

"So you didn't notice any other girls?" I ask him disbelievingly.

He chuckles. "Oh, I noticed just about every girl. None of them made me punch Cato though," he grins at me, and his teeth flash white in the dark room.

"None of them caused you to have a black eye," I correct him, and with a close up view of his face, I notice just how swollen his eye is. And the way it's really starting to turn an ugly mix of green and yellow and a shades of dark blue. I sigh and reach for the ice pack between us, leaning into him. Maybe it's the blood of a nurse in me or something. Peeta tenses slightly at my touch, but he accepts the pack I press gently against his face, holding it there to appease me when I draw away.

"Look," he exhales. "I know I'm not perfect. I'm not even a good guy. But I'm trying to be better."

"And being better means fighting Cato at house parties?" I ask skeptically, though I haven't moved from my new spot next to him.

Peeta shrugs, smiling softly. "Key word. Trying. I'm sorry I keep messing up so badly, okay? But Katniss, I swear to god I wasn't kidding when I said I loved you."

And I can't take it anymore.

This. Him. It's too…real.

He's imperfectly and annoyingly real. Every hot-headed, blacked-eyed, slightly drunk, and infuriatingly captivating part of him.

And I'm done lying to myself.

I want him too.

I climb onto him, taking the ice pack out of his hand and tossing it somewhere behind me, catching both of his eyes momentarily before closing mine as our mouths take to each other's quickly. It's such a relief, and his mouth is warm and unrelenting. And even though I can feel how swollen his lip is and it probably hurts for him to kiss me so hard, he doesn't seem to care. He tastes like cheap beer mixed with the metallic tang of blood, but I don't care about that either. Because the caring part of the night is over. Right now, I just want to feel.

And I feel Peeta exhale slowly against my mouth as pulls me further onto his lap, where I have both legs straddling him, his hands running the length of my thighs before resting one on my hip while the other moves to push my braid off my shoulder. Then his kisses move quickly, almost too quickly, from my mouth to my neck. He sucks eagerly, and I sigh, biting down on my lip. His hands explore me too, and they're as insistent and needy as his mouth.

I understand the hunger though. It feels like we've both been starved of the other for so long.

And now neither of us can get enough.

I moan softly when Peeta palms my breast, and I throw my head back as I roll my hips into him. An errant _fuck_ escapes the lips he has pressed against my shoulder, and I curl my fingers into his hair, relishing the way every part of him feels against me. We keep kissing, and touching, and the way Peeta does both ignites what starts as a tingle in the tips of my fingers and toes. But it quickly builds to a burning heat in my core and ultimately ends with an impossible ache between my thighs. And I let go of an errant word or two myself. Then, as I'm trailing kisses along the line of his jaw and all over his neck, more desperate words fall off his lips too.

_Fuck, I still love you._

He presses his mouth against my collarbone.

I _want to prove it to you._

His voice is thick and hoarse.

_Katniss, please. Let me love you._

"Okay," I finally relent as Peeta cups my ass as I'm rhythmically thrusting my hips into his, feeling the fullness of his erection against the flimsy cotton of my underwear. Because right now, I'm ready to let him do _anything_ to me.

At my acceptance of his request, Peeta stills beneath me, pulling back and stilling me too.

"Okay?" He asks me, searching my face as if he doesn't quite believe me.

I swallow hard and nod, sure the want in my eyes must be answer enough.

Peeta exhales slowly, before kissing me lightly.

"Okay," he says against my lips. And he steals another kiss before slumping back into his seat.

"Then we need to stop."

They're officially the most surprising words he's ever said to me.

I stare at him, taken aback. I just told him I _didn't_ want to stop.

"Why?" I ask, and for a briefly terrifying moment, I wonder if I've been played by Peeta Mellark again.

Then he rubs the sides of my arms gently. But the look in his eye is resolute as he explains.

"Because I don't think our first time should be me fucking you on your living room couch, half drunk, with my eye swollen shut and having no idea where this is going between us."

I let out a deep breath. And though I'm disappointed, and genuinely surprised he's putting on the brakes, I know he's right.

And I nod, not necessarily in agreement, because every part of me wants more. But I understand why he thinks we need to wait. He needs to prove this isn't a bet. And it isn't about sex.

I take some comfort in the way Peeta looks about as unsatisfied as I feel. Because let's be honest, some of this _is_ about sex.

Although it's not like I'm not entirely unsatisfied. My heart's feeling pretty full right now, actually.

But I roll off of him, sliding back into my seat on the couch, turning my head to him with a small smile.

"I can't believe you fought Cato."

He narrows his eyes at me playfully, and I watch him touch his lip tenderly, wincing again as he runs it over his cut that's reopened.

"I can't believe you fucking showed up with Cato."

I shrug, guiltily.

"I thought you'd stay away from me. I didn't think you'd break into fisticuffs because of it."

Peeta sighs.

"Katniss, from here on out, I will always, always, fight for you. Okay?"

"Okay," I repeat, my voice barely a whisper.

Then he raises an eyebrow pointedly at me.

"Just next time you want to make me jealous, I'd appreciate it if you pick a guy who isn't a fucking giant."

I roll my eyes, but I smile at him too, as I pick up the ice pack off the floor and hand it to him. He accepts it, putting it back on his eye.

"I won the fight, though right? I mean, I think I broke his nose."

I roll my eyes again, and shake my head as I settle in next to him, allowing his arm to drape over my shoulder and my head to rest against his chest.

"Yeah, Peeta. You won."

***

I fall asleep on the couch with him. And when I wake up, I'm wrapped in an old blanket and Peeta's arms, with a crick in my neck from the awkward way I've bent it in order to use his chest as a pillow.

I shake Peeta awake gently, knowing we don't have much time before my mother's shift ends. And he smiles at me sleepily, though in the early morning light, his face is an absolute mess, and I can't help but gasp.

But Peeta just laughs. Because apparently being the youngest of three boys in a home where your mother has a reputation for turning her rolling pin on you means you've treated a black eye and a split lip or two before. I don't like how flippant he is about it all, but I let it go for now, because he promises it'll look better after a shower and a day or two of icing it.

I walk him to his car, where we pause in front of his door. Peeta's running his hand through his hair that's mussed from sleep, methodically rubbing back and forth as he looks at me as if he's about to say something important.

And before he can, suddenly afraid of what it might be, I stop him with a question of my own.

"Are you okay going home to your mom?"

Peeta looks surprised at my question, and he shrugs as he contemplates it.

"I honestly doubt she'll care."

Then he looks at me sheepishly. "But I um, don't live with my mom any more. Rye let me move in with him for the summer."

I know this is a good thing. A great thing. Peeta's mother is evil. I'm actually fairly certain she's the reason he's evil himself sometimes. But I'm still mad, because half the reason I think I let him come home with me was because I didn't want him to get in trouble last night.

"Peeta, what the hell? Why didn't you tell me? I could have taken you there last night!"

He grins at my exasperation.

"I didn't think you'd stay with me. And I liked my chances better at your place."

Ugh. Of course, even drunk and beaten and bloody, he's still calculating.

"Besides," he chuckles, "how would you have gotten home then? Walked? Stolen my car?"

Good point. And am I really mad about how things worked out last night? No. I'm just irritated at how easily he can manipulate me.

"So…" Peeta begins again slowly after a pregnant pause.

"I don't know if you remember this or not, but I think you owe me a date."

Of course I remember. Though I've tried a million times to forget.

But it's different now. He's softer, somehow. And he's the first to admit he's not perfect.

But I'm far from perfect too. Both of us, especially together, can be messy and rash and angry and jealous and just plain stupid.

So no, obviously, neither of us are perfect. _We're_ not perfect.

But there's still that undeniable spark between us. It's why we fight. It's why I hate him sometimes. And it's why, when he's near me, I can't even think straight because all I want is _him._

With that kind of heat, I know it's possible I'll get burned again.

But I like my chances this time. And while I realize that maybe there's no right answer, I also realize there doesn't have to be.

And so I say yes.

**Author's Note:**

> _You can think I’m lame or whatever, but since YDKWYDK was loosely inspired by Taylor Swift’s “Mean,” I found it only fitting to let “Red” inspire this one._


End file.
